


The Hole

by LoniceraAstray



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America being a dick, M/M, Monologue, Porn with Feelings, Revolutionary War, hole fetish, literarily, only used for angst, twisted relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoniceraAstray/pseuds/LoniceraAstray
Summary: The first time I laid my eye on you, I knew you would be mine, and I already knew how your hole would feel like once I was inside.Of America's teenage fantasy and a certain fetish. America's POV.





	The Hole

**Author's Note:**

> Let's pretend Scottish Folds existed in pre-Revolutionary America ok? They are just too cute to be given up for historical accuracy :P

The first time I laid my eyes on you, I knew you would be mine.

You were pale, slim, clear-cut, like a classical marble sculpture. You weren’t chubby and cuddly as most teenagers, but I wanted to touch you, caress you, make you soften and melt under my hands. When you sat down, slender legs were always carefully closed due to your Puritan primness. I wondered what they were hiding from me. Must be your most secret beauty.

And I knew I would make you mine.

The first time I saw you _that_ way, I was thirteen. You paid me a short visit after being away for what seemed like forever. You said I shouldn’t sleep with you. I was frustrated. Did I do something wrong? Was I filthy?

I found the answer the day I sneaked into your room when you were away. I lay on your bed, trying to have a teenage sweet dream, but soon I was only aware of one thing: your scent.

It smelt like rainy day, old castle and dry flowers, like a cup of black tea made of leaves stayed too long in a damp stone basement. It was floating and flowing everywhere, the pillow that you laid your blond hair on, the duvet that kept you warm, the clothes that caressed your skin, the cologne that you wore. I was squirming, stretching on your bed, bit by an inner fire kindled by your scent. The fire spread throughout my body, and before I knew it, I was touching myself down _there._

I moved. I moaned. It was a fresh feeling, something intrinsically right. I closed my eyes, and you came into my mind, naked, flawless, as a real sculpture. I knew where to put my hands, my mouth, my hot, aching cock. Nobody taught me. I just knew.

I knew how to slowly strip down your heavy navy uniform, only leaving your white stockings on so that you won’t feel cold. I knew how to swirl my tongue inside your mouth so that you couldn’t help but moan. I knew it was better to have you on your stomach, spread your cheeks and prepare you with my fingers and—

I just didn’t know what a _hole_ felt like, but I fantasized dewy rose petals, fresh honey cake, with more warmth, of course. How could you hide a soft, warm hole deep inside your cold body of marble? How deep could I get? Would it be straight and dark as a rail tunnel, or curving and meandering like a forest path, coaxed me in and made me stuck? And the movement. What would it feel like to be pumping my cock inside you, up and down, in and out, back and forth? What pace should I pick, slow and deep like waves surrounding your island, or swift and surface like my west coast hurricane? Did it hurt like one? Wouldn’t my cock slip out, or strike the wrong spot to make you scream in pain? It didn’t sound like a bad prospect, either.

I didn’t last long.

* * *

I didn't dare look into your eyes since then, fearing that you would find the beast in me. I was fantasizing about you every Sunday night after I went to church, soiling my bed sheet and exhausting my hand. I was moaning your name, calling you strange pet names: Artie, my love, snow white, beauty, rosy, kitty, my furry Scottish Fold. At night, I was the boldest lover, whispering obscenities into your chaste ear. At day, I was the most obedient pupil, listening to your lectures with modesty and shame.

I didn’t know if this could last long.

* * *

_That_ day I had you.

I didn’t understand why it had to be that day, with the smell of war and death and torrential rain. That day my men caught you in the battle field, in a war where we were not fighting side by side, but against each other. You were sitting in my tent, arms tied, legs spread, uniform ragged, exposed creamy skin stained with mud and gunpowder and blood.

You gave me a _look_.

The looked that said that I was no longer your most precious boy, that we were playing a game in which the winner got whatever he wanted, that you couldn't care less about what I would do to you.

It was all wrong. I should be there to comfort you, to hold your small frame in my arms, to share with you chaste kisses, to promise to protect you forever.

I raped you.

If it’s possible for a virgin teenage boy to rape an experienced older man. I pinned you onto the filthy tent floor, torn your crimson uniform apart, sank my teeth into your dry lips so that they became wet and warm. I hastily licked down your skinny torso, my desire burning only for one thing: your sweet, mysterious little hole, my childhood fantasy, the source of my pleasure and pain. I’m going to have you, mark you, make you mine.

I flopped you over, opened your slim, forbidding legs, spread your round, firm ass cheeks and found your small, tight, bleeding—

Oh no.

Thin streams of blood were dripping out of your asshole, along with traces of white, sticky liquid. The ring of muscle flushed dark pink, a sign of previous intense motion.

You were already soiled. Maybe by my men, but still. Soiled.

I felt disgusted. If I went on to fuck you, it would be like sharing you with some random human. If I didn’t, maybe I would never have a chance, for I had made you hate me anyway.

I freed my cock, and pushed it into your small, pink—

Mouth.

I forced you to your knees, grabbed you by your hair, directed your head so that you could fully take me in. I began bucking my hips back and forth. So wet, so warm, so soft, but not tight enough.

“Suck me hard, you little bitch,” I found myself talking, “like how you did for my soldiers and officers, and maybe yours. You are good at this, huh? See how much saliva you are already producing. Do you even get wet down there like a fine little whore?”

You furiously spat out my cock.

“I never suck dicks. And I never get wet like a woman.”

“THEN WHY DID YOU GET YOURSELF THOROUGHLY FUCKED LIKE A WOMAN?”

I found the corner of my eyes watering. The pale, slim figure like a marble sculpture. The creamy skin, the secret between slender legs, the enticing scent. The fantasies, the pet names, the beautiful, lustful Sunday nights.

Was all of these an illusion? Was I worshiping a perfect, nonexistent figure all those years?

“I’ve long lost my virginity, Alfred, if that’s what you mean.” Your emerald eyes calm and still. Were they like this all the time?

“And it’s far from my first time being raped. I can handle it. Would you like me to find some towel and clean myself?”

I wiped my eyes.

“Yup. Go clean yourself so that I can go on.”

…

You were underneath me. Long, slim legs hovering above your head in a “V” position. So flexible. You spread your cheeks for me, eyes darting around but not on me, face flushed a lovely shade of pink.

It almost felt like we were making love.

It was a pity that my fingers had the privilege to enter your hole first. You didn’t make a noise during my finger-penetration, but I could tell from the wrinkles on your forehead that you were not enjoying it. You didn’t teach me how to do it, or direct me to serve your pleasure. You were simply enduring, distracting yourself from reality, from _me_.

I didn’t want to have you like that.

“Arthur.” I demanded, “Arthur, look at me. I want you to enjoy this.”

You squeezed your thin lips into a bitter smile.

“Isn’t that enough to be your whore already? Do I have to be your clown, too?”

“It’s not like that, Artie—"

“Just get this over with. Do as you please, don’t care about me.”

So I did. I dropped my finger job halfway, held up my long-neglected cock instead, like a soldier sneaking into an enemy-occupied territory holding a rifle. I scrutinized your entrance, it was mostly pink with dark pigments scattered around, shrinking and dilating with the pace of your breath. The ring of muscle puckered severely, like a whirlpool waiting to devour its prey.

It wasn’t a very beautiful sight to behold.

But you were. You were lying beneath me, ankles vulnerably trembling in my hands, limbs folded into an unnatural angle, like an exquisite paper flower.

It was your hole, so it had to be beautiful, too.

I nuzzled the tip of my cock at your entrance, and god damn me if I were not already driven crazy by the initial contact. The heat, the firmness, the wetness that was the lingering vapor from the towel and it was so small so small and round and lovely oh god I didn’t know how it could fit my above-average sized cock I must squeeze myself in with force and slowly move forward forward until my balls were deep inside it forward until I reach the end of the tunnel and break into your womb where I came from and sow it with my seed so that you will bear my children one blue-eyed one green-eyed and I will call them my rosy my Scottish Fold and you will laugh and—

“Are you going to fuck me or not?”

Oh.

I repositioned my self and started penetrating you bit by bit. It was more difficult than I imagined, the friction, the resistance, but god I have never been in something so tight it was clenching me forcefully sucking me in eagerly trapping me intentionally and making me lost. You know what it was not me raping you Artie it was you raping me with your seductive, slutty hole a carnivorous flower to which I could do nothing but fall.

And I started moving, inside, out, inside, out. I felt different levels of pressure from different parts of your hole. Such rich sensations. And I found that I didn’t have to pick a pace. Cocks and holes had their own pace and all you needed was to give them contact let them kiss and hug and entwine with each other and they would be yelling to you harder faster deeper until you and them were all worn out and didn’t want to see each other again.

I felt your rose petals blooming with each thrust, your sweat made them dewy and fragrant. Your fluffy cake melted at my heat and honey inside flowed and dripped everywhere. It was exactly what I imagined, I already knew what your hole would feel like the first time I laid my eyes on you and you on me. And _oh god_ you were moaning beautifully I hadn’t foreseen this part so my cock suddenly became very, very hard and painful. But I had to cover your mouth because I didn’t want to share the juicy content inside my rose the honey inside my cake with others even if someone had already tasted them before.

I rolled you over, forced you on your arms and knees so that I could free my hands and concentrate on your precious hole. You wept. A lot. I wiped your eyes and used your fresh tears to lubricate your hole. It was always so tight, so small. It shut and locked once I pulled out from it, but every time I was able to find my way home.

I decided to call it a home.

Human lived in caves in their primitive days. Deep, dark, and warm if you make fire in it. I didn’t know whether it was kind of atavism or merely nostalgia for mother’s womb. It was strange because neither did we have our primitive days nor were we born through a vagina. But you were my mother, my primitive shelter anyway, if every being had to have a mother and a primitive shelter. When I was deep, deep inside you it wasn’t a novelty anymore it was certainty security familiarity it was everything you had given to me through all those years and to _me_ only. I couldn’t help but cry so loud and obnoxious like a kidnapped baby you must had heard me or was it because of the cold droplets falling on your skin since you turned your watery, desperate emerald eyes to me we were looking into each other both of us crying I didn’t know why it just kind of happened and it didn’t feel bad. Then I went on moving inside you you went on sobbing beneath me like how a normal pair of rapist and victim should be.

I didn’t last long. I began to lose control at around the thirtieth thrust my cock was like a spear held by a blind soldier flying everywhere at different speed and level of force. The pleasure was building so fast I wasn’t even aware if you were hurt which was nonsense because many years afterwards you told me you were crying and screaming at your highest pitch begging me to stop so I must have been deliberately ignoring. I came inside you, sending my seeds down into your hole as deep as I could. You were mine. Finally mine. Forever mine. I lingered inside you for god know how long I was hugging you sobbing my guts out saying England I love you always loved you please forgive me don’t ever leave me say you love me pleasepleaseplsaseplease you stopped crying emerald eyes cold and deep like Lake Superior with her bank of cliff sorry that’s all I knew about analogy.

“Alfred.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t say you love them next time you rape someone. They’ll hate you.”

“What? I won’t—”

Then you were gone. Grabbing some random clothes, you hastened into the rain to the captives' tent. You were gone.

I hadn’t seen you for the next four decades.

* * *

“Did you hate me?”

I suddenly asked when my fingers were roaming inside the familiar dark, warm, narrow tunnel which was your hole.

“Hate you what?” your voice soft and sloppy in the darkness of our bedroom like rain-flavored vapor permeating the house through cracks on the wall.

“You know, when we first…” I grabbed your firm, round cheeks with my other hand. They were the chubbiest part of your body which was as slim and pale as centuries ago.

“Rape was a common practice in wartime.” you said matter-of-factly, “But yes, I hated you. For a while.”

“What made you change your mind?” I began licking and nipping your cheeks, so soft and warm. Like a cake filled to the brim with honey. Someone has to have you, eat you up, and that should be me.

“You were only a teenager at that time, you didn’t know what you were doing.” you let out a meow, cheeks tightened, “Besides, it was me who spoiled you, didn’t teach you how to love.”

“Do you think I know how now?” I retracted my finger, let my tongue swirl around your entrance which was edged by the puckers like your fine lace cuff.

“No-ngh.” you must have felt me when I started fucking your hole with my tongue, sticking it inside you as far as I could. “You…never change, Alfred. But what-ah, can I do…you are my child…a-and…I knew I'm yours anyway.”

That’s my good Artie, my beauty, my secret rose bud, my love.

I blew a soft breath into you. You laughed, trying to kick my off. I wasted no time pushing my hot, aching cock inside you, swift and accurate in the darkness because of instinct and years of practice, into your small, tight, warm, maybe a little wet due to the lube, hole.

I was home. 


End file.
